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<title>think I wanna make that move now by charleybradburies</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568530">think I wanna make that move now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies'>charleybradburies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Temporarily), (technically) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Background Relationships, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon Era, Celebrations, Courting Rituals, Declarations Of Love, Drama &amp; Romance, Engagement, F/F, Gay Jon Snow, Happy Ending, House Stark, King Jon Snow, Love, M/M, Marriage, Multi, Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, Political Alliances, Politics, Protective Siblings, Protective Tormund Giantsbane, Romance, Secret Relationship, Siblings, Tournaments, Traditions, True Love, Wedding Night, Weddings, Winterfell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:09:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Baby, it's me and you, I've been waiting, think I wanna make that move now"<br/>-<i>Me &amp; U</i>, Cassie</p><p>The Northern court insists on a marriage for their king, decided with a tournament. </p><p>So, his lover plays the system.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Davos Seaworth &amp; Jon Snow, Jon Snow &amp; Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Petyr Baelish &amp; Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Brienne of Tarth, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>think I wanna make that move now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please enjoy, kudos, and comment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>His betrothal tournament.</i>
</p><p>Jon hadn't even thought to dread it until mere weeks ago, as such an event had never been his to have, although he'd long since dreaded his sisters'. Yet Arya’s continued disappearance had her seemingly escaping her fate of ladyship, and Sansa had been consigned to undesirable husbands thrice too many times for Jon to allow it to happen again - as a king or as a brother. He had to protect her, and the North, whatever that meant for him, no matter how he hated what it required. No matter what lord or lady won his hand at the tourney that tradition, and his bannermen, dictated he hold. No matter who Jon had chosen to wake up next to in the mornings before his fate was chosen for him, and no matter how dearly he loved him.</p><p>It needed to be done. Yet Jon, standing in his chambers as Sansa finishes dressing him for the event, their crowns upon both their heads, dreads it more than he's dreaded nearly anything else in his life. It matters little that the court's insistence proves he's become a man worth fighting to marry - an honor he'd have actually felt honored to receive, had it come years ago, before there had been someone he wanted.</p><p>He doesn't quite realize that Sansa, too, is not looking forward to the tournament, until she sighs as she's closing his cloak, and he sees sadness in her eyes.</p><p>"If your choice in the matter could be won without offending our banners..." she says, barely a murmur, though no louder a voice is needed for him to hear her.</p><p>"Brienne would be getting ready to win my freedom in your honor, I'm certain," Jon states, with surprising clarity. </p><p>"I'm sorry, Jon," Sansa continues, firmer this time - and he knows that it's not only the loss of his choice that she's sorry for, no more than that's all that he mourns. "I...I hope our victor is more than that, and a good man. Good to you."</p><p>She puts on a small smile, and he returns it as best he can. They don't need to talk about who that victor surely won't be - who they wish it would be.</p><p>Davos comes to retrieve them, his expression more somber than any competitor should see upon him, lest they infer Jon's reticence from his Hand. The three of them walk the corridor slowly, quietly, and Jon half-hopes it swallows him whole and saves him from the expectations he bears today. Unfortunately, he's not quite so lucky, and they reach its end all too soon, turning corners and emerging from the castle, walking the path out through the courtyard to where a tournament ground has been set up. </p><p>It’s similar to the couple he’d seen as a boy, though its scope more likely resembles the proper southron tournaments Sansa’s seen, a large area nestled against the soldiers’ camps. Some segments of land close to the Kingsroad have been portioned off, though even the fenced areas have not been cleared of the recent snows, the last of which still falls with flurries that Jon can see melt against Sansa’s hair and cloak. </p><p>“Taking this to mean Southern competitors are discouraged, hmm?” Davos says, perking his voice up to joke as they near the grounds, hand raised to show the snow upon the leather of his gloves, and Sansa gives a truer laugh to him than Jon could muster.</p><p>“A man easily unhorsed by the factor of snow is hardly a match for the North, Ser Davos, let alone its King,” she replies easily, sounding like she’s making a political statement just as much as she is teasing her company, and Jon finds within himself a chuckle at it, though not one as deep as Davos’. </p><p>Jon nearly adds some comment about his bastard name, but doesn’t care to fool them into thinking he’s happy enough with the day to joke. He’ll have to put on a good face for the spectators, come to watch his life be chosen, but he won’t - perhaps can’t - do so for family or friends. Sansa knowingly meets his eyes anyway, a master of reading what people have chosen not to say, almost as though intentionally reminding him of her statement, of the hope that the person who wins him to wed today is a good match, not only for an alliance, but for him. He suspects she’s the only Northern noble to truly care about that, but then again, she’s always dreamed of romance, whether it be her own or that of another.</p><p>The path leads them towards the stands, by crowds of smallfolk - some of whom bow for them as they pass, some of whom only wave excitedly. Across what looks to be more a snowy field than a tournament ground, even with a long fence down its middle, parallel to the stands, is yet another parallel fence with a scattering of tents behind it and many people crowded into the area. Banners of many houses are hung to line the outside of the grounds, their Northern and Vale sigils visible, and one hanging of a pelt that makes Jon’s heart ache even more, though he doesn’t precisely know which Free Folk leader might have insisted on being included in such a way, even though in his mind’s eye he quickly recalls Tormund joking about banners one recent night when he and Ghost had been at odds about sharing the space in Jon’s bed. Jon would more actively wonder which sigils will be represented on the field, if only he felt it mattered enough. </p><p>Some lords and ladies sit on benches in the stands, with Lord Baelish among those closer to the center, where chairs for Jon, Sansa, and their immediate retinue - of which Baelish is, thankfully, not a part - have been set up. Brienne is waiting, ever doting, to offer her hand to assist Sansa up those few steps, and nodding respectfully at Jon and Davos as they follow. Turning back around in front of his chair, Jon can survey the area more easily, though without recognizing more than a few people, it doesn’t mean much. Ghost is scouting out the changed scenery, though, until Podrick meets Jon’s eyes from across the grounds. Jon nods at him, and whistles for Ghost, who rushes over, greeting Jon and Sansa with licks to their gloves. </p><p>A horn is blown from the middle of the grounds. The sitting lords and ladies stand, and Podrick clears his throat and sets the event, turning Jon’s stomach with all descriptions but his introductions of Jon and Sansa as the North’s king and princess. Other, less necessary titles - Sansa’s position as Lady of Winterfell excepted - come along with the statement, but even the least necessary title means something other than bad news. </p><p>Jon and Sansa take their seats in the two central chairs, Jon in the tallest and Sansa at his immediate left, followed closely by Brienne and Davos, in the chairs flanking the two of them, and then the crowd in the stands, as well as Ghost, who lays in front of their chairs, his head by Jon’s feet.</p><p>A lutist takes the center near Podrick, bowing somewhat nervously before them, and begins a rendition of a song that Jon doesn’t recognize and that Sansa smiles at good-heartedly. Far too soon, Lord Baelish’s voice comes from their left, a quiet but obnoxious whisper. </p><p>"You know, your father never liked tournaments either. The pomp, the lack of necessity. Never fought in one that I know of; he didn't want his opponents to know how he fought lest he fought them for real. I wonder if this might prove itself a safer option for your war, though it can be said that your family has had simpler options for making such alliances.”</p><p>Jon’s hand clenches of its own accord, as though with its own memories of Jon’s anger, and Ghost’s head pops up, looking towards the lord. Without so much as a glance their way, Sansa relieves Jon of needing to reply.</p><p>“Isn’t this a lovely song, Lord Baelish?”</p><p>He shifts his look from Jon to her, and leans back into his seat. </p><p>“Something a sweet little bird might sing, my lady.”</p><p>For all the attention Jon finds himself unable to pay to the song itself, he loathes the moment it will end.</p>
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